This War Is Over
by kaly
Summary: What if the demon had told Dean no deal in All Hell Breaks Loose?  Gen.  AU tag for 'All Hell Breaks Loose'.


Title: This War Is Over  
Author: kaly  
Category: Gen, angst, tag  
Characters: Dean, Sam, Bobby  
Rating: PG  
Word Count: 3,600  
Spoilers: All Hell Breaks Loose, Parts 1 & 2  
Summary: What if the demon had told Dean no deal in All Hell Breaks Loose? 

**Warnings: **AU. Character Death.

Note: Thanks, once more, to Geminigrl11 for betaing. Written for the SFTCOL(AR)S Summer Santa (round four) exchange.

Disclaimer: Not mine. The pretty, snarky, angsty brothers belong to Kripke & the CW.

This War Is Over

"It's a better deal than your dad ever got. What do you say?"

Thinking only of Sam - of saving him - Dean leaned forward, trying not to cringe, trying not to think of the deal he was about to agree to. One year or fifty, he might die tomorrow. The details were meaningless. Nothing mattered but getting Sam back. Nothing but them being together.

Only instead of the press of lips he expected, Dean's face was filled with the stale air of mocking laughter.

"Oh, you mortals really are just too easy, aren't you?"

Snapping back, as though she had physically slapped him, Dean gaped. "What are you talking about?" Denials raced through his head, the urge to beg and plead and fall to his knees nearly overwhelmed him. Instead, he latched onto anger. "Do we have a deal or not?"

She smiled mockingly, obviously enjoying watching as Dean recoiled in horror. Her eyes on fire, she said, "Or not."

In that moment, Dean's world stopped.

Suddenly, in a screaming stream of smoke, the demon exploded into the night. And for a moment, all Dean could do was stare. Instinctively, on autopilot, he grabbed the elbow of the young, confused woman left behind to keep her from falling, but his mind was a million miles away. It was in a tattered, worn house, which held the only part of his life that _really_ mattered.

He couldn't blink. He couldn't breathe.

He had failed.

"Where am I?" the woman asked, searching the no doubt unfamiliar road frantically, startling Dean into looking at her.

He coughed, trying to find his voice. Trying to find the will to care that she was scared and lost, but failing there, also. "Nowhere," he choked out.

"What?!" she asked, jerking her arm away. Looking down, she added, "And what am I _wearing_?"

Ignoring her, not even giving a passing thought to what would happen to her once he left, Dean turned and walked ever so slowly back to the Impala. He opened the door, and climbed in before turning and seeing her standing in the middle of the crossroads, looking lost. Unable to leave her stranded, even if a vindictive part of him wanted to, Dean rolled down the window.

"Hey."

She jerked her gaze to him, and took a single step forward.

"Take this," he said, tossing her his cell phone. "Call for a ride."

"But this is your phone," she said, confused and distrusting.

Dean shrugged, cranking the motor. "I won't be needing it," he whispered, but he doubted that she heard him over the noise as the tires squealed, looking for purchase.

Dean drove back to Cold Oak without thinking. He kept the gas pedal on the floor, rarely resorting to the brake, but it was all habitual, sense memory. The drive itself was a blur and in no time at all, Dean found himself parked as closely to the town as he could.

Slowly, his entire body aching, Dean climbed out of the car and closed the door. It occurred to him that both of their bags were still in the trunk, and Dean walked around to it and popped the trunk open. Quickly, he hefted both bags onto his shoulder before slamming it shut.

He gave the Impala a long look, running his hand down the edge of the hood as he walked by. She had been the best home they had ever known.

Tearing his gaze away from the car, Dean turned and began the walk back to the house where he had left Sam. He ignored the almost ominous sounds coming from the forest, uncaring of what might be out there. And soon enough, he could see the ramshackle building that held the only thing he gave a damn about.

Dean paused, staring at the building. For a moment he couldn't bring his legs to move. When he had left, it had been with every intention of returning to find Sam whole and alive. To go inside now, and find nothing waiting for him - just the empty shell he had left behind... Dean shuddered, failure rippling over him from head to toe.

He had failed his family. Again.

Slowly, Dean forced himself to move. The sooner he made himself face his failure completely, the sooner he could do what needed to be done. He scuffed his boots on the ground - almost dragging them - ignoring the way the mud clung to them.

Part of him was stalling, he knew. Dean didn't want to see Sam's... Dean swallowed back the urge to vomit, the words still choking in his mind. He didn't want to see Sam's _body_ lying in the ratty bedroom. But he had to - he owed that much to his little brother, if he couldn't bring him back.

Pushing the door open, Dean glanced around and was grateful to see Bobby wasn't hiding away in a corner somewhere. True, he hadn't seen Bobby's truck when he had arrived, and was pretty sure the older hunter had returned home after Dean sent him away the last time. But Dean didn't put it past him to have not gone quite so far, and to have parked somewhere else for the element of surprise.

It felt as though his feet were moving without guidance from his head, because Dean moved directly to the bedroom, not stopping until he stood in the doorway. Once there, he shoved his hands in his pockets and leaned against the doorframe. It felt oddly familiar, like he had spent an entire lifetime doing just this.

For more minutes than he could count, Dean simply stared. He found himself holding his breath, as if willing Sam's chest to move in response. A far too familiar burning bit at his eyes and Dean closed them tightly, willing the useless tears away. Once he felt as though it was safe, Dean opened his eyes and risked another glance at Sam.

_You don't think I've given enough? You don't think I've paid enough? I'm done with it. All of it._ His words, angrily thrown at Bobby, rang in his ears. Looking at Sam, seeing the broken remains of what meant everything to him, Dean shuddered. _Too much_, he thought, _I've given too much. Everything._

He had nothing left to give.

Something clicked in him then, and Dean felt calm. He knew what needed done. He had known since the moment the demon had fled, laughing at his pain and his loss. At that moment, a plan had formed and that plan now gave him a measure of calm. There was work to do.

He dropped their bags on the floor, next to the chair he had used earlier that day and turned from Sam. Dean retreated into the living area where the remnants of food Bobby had brought to him littered the sole table. There among the mess was the bottle of whiskey he had been nursing for the past day. Picking it up, Dean took a long pull from the bottle before removing his jacket and turning back to Sam's room.

Dean placed the bottle on the floor and rolled his sleeves up. Remotely, almost feeling as if he was watching from a distance, Dean fell to his knees beside the bed, not even noticing the impact. Rubbing his hand over his face, Dean sighed softly.

"Okay, Sammy," he whispered, needing to make sure Sam knew what was happening, even if he was beyond hearing. His voice breaking, Dean continued, "Let's get you cleaned up, okay?"

Not waiting for an answer that would never come again, Dean sat on the edge of the bed and leaned forward, putting put his arms around Sam's shoulders. He tugged slightly, carefully, until Sam was sitting upright, collapsed against Dean's chest, arms hanging by their sides.

Dean fisted his hands in the back of Sam's jacket, a rough sob tearing out of his throat as he clenched his eyes shut, his control slipping. Memories - too many memories - of Sam slumped in Dean's arms as his life slipped away overwhelmed him. The feel of Sam's breath, stuttered and fading, on his throat. The echoing of a fading heartbeat pounding in his ears. The way Sam's eyes had slid away from him, unable to stay focused.═ Open.═ Empty.

It was almost too much to bear.

Struggling to breathe, to remember the plan, Dean gasped roughly, holding onto Sam even tighter. For a wild moment, he wondered if he could simply will his own life into Sam's body, make it where it could all be undone. The manic, futile hope only brought behind it another crushing feeling of failure and Dean slumped in Sam's arms, almost as broken as his brother.

Tearing one hand away from Sam, Dean scrubbed it angrily over his cheeks. Damn it, there wasn't time for a breakdown that wouldn't solve anything - or was it there was too much time? All the time in the world, Dean couldn't help but think.

He cupped Sam's cheek in his palm, holding his head up so he could force himself to look at his brother. His skin was ashen and sunken - pale in a way Sam had never been; bangs hanging limply on his forehead.

"Sammy..." Dean whispered, searching his face but not finding the answers he sought.

Shaking his head, as though that might somehow clear it, Dean took a shaky breath. Detached - he had to be detached and remember the plan. He had to focus on the plan, nothing else. Dean managed to scoot back just far enough to hook his hands inside the front of Sam's jacket.

"Okay, Sammy," Dean said, tugging at the material. "First things first. Let's get this jacket off of you. It's ruined anyway."

He gave a passing thought to how insane he must sound, talking to his dead brother, but shrugged it away. Manhandling the jacket from Sam's arms, he cursed as the arms caught on Sam's hands before he took a deep breath and gently worked them free. Soon enough, he dropped the garment - refusing to look at the bloodstains - on the chair beside the bed.

Carefully, Dean began unhooking the buttons that ran down the front of Sam's shirt. "Just the shirt next," he said, as one of the buttons put up a valiant fight. "No one's gonna ever want to wear this one again anyway." This time, Dean remembered to unhook the cuffs before tugging the sleeves down over Sam's hands. A moment later, the shirt joined the jacked on the chair.

That left Sam in only a worn t-shirt. "Just one more to go."

Dean briefly debated trying to pull the clingy material over Sam's head before giving up the idea and ripping it instead. He shuddered as he felt the brittle, dried blood on the back of the shirt before tossing it onto the pile.

"All right, Sammy," he said, laying his brother back onto the mattress. "I've just gotta take care of this and I'll be right back to take care of you." He looked at Sam for a long moment before whispering, "I promise."

He resigned himself to stepping away from Sam long enough to grab the ruined clothes and deal with them. In the kitchen, he had seen a large metal bucket, which he dropped the shirts into - letting them go as if they burned his skin - before he picked the bucket up and took it outside.

Once there, he dug in his pocket for his lighter, ignited the flame and dropped it into the bucket. Dean watched for several moments as the material smoldered before finally truly catching, flames licking the sides of the bucket. Dean felt an odd satisfaction, watching the clothes burn. They were a mark of Sam's death, of Dean's failure.

They weren't good enough for Sam anymore. They needed to be destroyed.

Dean wasn't sure how long he stood there, watching the clothes burn. Time wasn't something he found himself caring about, or paying attention to. Dean only returned to the house once the flames began to die down, and the damning evidence of what had happened was almost gone.

Unsurprisingly, Sam was where Dean had left him - lying bare-chested on the bare mattress, the half-empty bottle of whiskey still on the floor. Crossing the room, Dean opened his bag and pulled out one of his spare shirts. He grabbed the bottle of whiskey, and poured some of it onto the shirt.

Retaking his seat beside Sam, he laughed hollowly. "Yeah, yeah, it ain't water - much less holy water - but it's all I've got, Sammy." His eyes watered at the overwhelming odor and he added, "But at least it should dry fast."

Gently, he ran the makeshift rag over Sam's forehead and down his cheeks. Mud from the main road had splattered his face, and Dean rubbed at the flaking spots one by one until they were gone. With a last pass over his eyelids and nose, Dean ran the rag down his throat, removing the last of the mud.

"Gotta turn you over now, Sammy," he said, putting the rag on his lap before maneuvering Sam so that he was lying on his side.

Dean rewet the rag with the whiskey before stilling his nerves and forcing himself to look at the wound that had stolen his brother from him. Dried blood was caked everywhere, and the skin around the puncture was still streaked with angry red marks.

"Damn it, Sammy," he said, fighting back the urge to vomit on the floor.

Looking skyward for a moment, Dean took a deep breath, trying to find the will to finish. His hands shook as he wiped the area at the edge of the wound lightly, carefully. Bolder, he moved the rag closer and closer until all traces of the blood was gone from Sam's back and only the damning hole remained.

Taking a stuttering breath, Dean moved Sam so that he once more lay on his back, but more toward the edge of the bed. "Almost done," he said, dropping the rag onto the floor.

Dean returned to their bags, only this time it was Sam's he pulled open and began digging around in. It took a few moments, but soon enough he found the greyhound shirt he had given Sam so much grief about. He never understood why Sam loved the silly shirt so much, but he did. Dean swallowed. Had.

He wrapped his fists in the shirt, before pressing it to his face. Closing his eyes, Dean imagined he could still smell Sam on the material. The familiar prickling feeling returned and Dean dug his fabric-covered knuckles into his eyes before taking a rough breath.

It was almost done, he reminded himself. He just had to hold it together a little while longer. Then he could rest.

Dropping his hands, Dean returned to Sam's side only to find himself faced with the issue of getting the shirt onto his brother. Resolved to having to deal with it - refusing to cut or tear _this_ shirt - Dean bunched the material in his hands and slipped the neck over Sam's head.

"Okay, you're gonna have to work with me here," he told Sam. "I haven't had to dress you since you were four, I'm out of practice."

He ignored how cold Sam's skin felt, as he bent and moved the arms into the sleeves. He ignored how pliant the body was - in stark contrast to the always-moving bundle of energy he remembered dressing when they were kids. All that mattered was getting the shirt onto Sam - and how normal he looked once it was.

Finally, the shirt was in place and Dean took a deep breath, sitting back for a second before moving to arrange Sam's arms across his midsection. Ignoring how his hands still shook, Dean leaned forward just enough to brush Sam's bangs out of his face.

Dean could almost convince himself that Sam was merely sleeping. That his little brother would wake soon and this would be a horrible - but thankfully over - nightmare. God, how he wished that were the case.

His hands were still shaking when he grasped the whiskey bottle and pulled it to his lips. Dean took a drink, wincing when the bottle clacked against his teeth. He swallowed, wiping═the back of his sleeve across his mouth. He put the bottle back on the floor, he wasn't drunk - not by a long shot - and he didn't want anyone to think he had been.

Reaching into his pocket for his cell phone, Dean cringed when he remembered giving it to the girl in the street. There was one last call to make, one that couldn't be avoided. Dean sighed and patted Sam's jeans pockets, relieved when he found the familiar phone in one of them.

He was even more relieved to find that, somehow, it had a signal. Dean wasn't sure how it was possible - there had never been a signal before - but he wasn't about to question the luck. The number was one he knew by heart, and within seconds he was listening to the phone ring, followed by a familiar, if suspicious, "Hello?"

"Hey, Bobby."

"Dean..." The suspicion was gone, but he was clearly hesitant. "How're you doing?"

Dean almost laughed. It was such a ridiculous question, and he knew Bobby realized it was well as he did. "Just peachy. Listen, Bobby..."

"I can be there in an hour, two tops," Bobby said, interrupting.

Dean knew the drive from Bobby's place would take longer than that. Absent-mindedly, he wondered if Bobby was planning to speed the whole way or was just optimistic. Only it didn't take Dean long to realize that he didn't care. It didn't matter, anyway.

Knowing the older hunter only wanted to help - had always only wanted to help - Dean looked skyward for a long moment, blinking quickly. "Actually," he said, before Bobby could say anything else. "I was wondering if you would come back."

"You're..." Bobby paused. "You're ready to take care of Sam?" he asked in such a low voice, Dean could barely hear him.

Looking at his brother, his innocent little brother who seemed so peaceful and at rest, Dean smiled. That was exactly what he was doing. "Something like that."

Something must have sounded off in his voice, though, because Bobby asked, "Dean, what are you up to?"

Suddenly feeling light - lighter than he had since Sam had fallen at his feet - Dean said, "Just what needs doing, Bobby. The only thing I can do."

"I'm on my way. Wait for me, okay, Dean?" And Dean can hear rustling and barking in the background, the slam of a door followed by an engine turning over. "Don't do anything stupid. Just stay there."

"We'll be here," Dean replied, honestly, ignoring the rest as their definitions of stupid probably differed. "Bobby?" he asked, a moment later.

"Yeah Dean?"

Dean smiled then, feeling nothing but gratitude (and a flare of guilt) toward the older hunter. "Thank you. For everything."

"Dean Winchester, I swear..." But whatever Bobby was about to swear was lost as Dean punched the disconnect button.

Standing, Dean dropped the phone onto Sam's bag before again digging though his own. There, just where he always kept it, was his .38, always loaded and ready should he need it. It felt comfortable, familiar in his hand, and it should have - it was the first gun his dad ever gave him.

He flicked the safety off with his thumb and returned to the bed, somehow managing to wedge himself onto the top of it, next to Sam. Dean lay there for several moments, listening to the silence, staring at the ceiling, and wondering _Where are you Sammy?_ before shaking his head. Dean figured he would have his answer soon enough.

Time seemed to shift at that moment, speeding up somehow, racing toward an inevitable conclusion. A glance at Sam, and Dean grasped the gun tighter and raised it. His palms weren't sweaty. His hand didn't shake. He released a steady breath. Dean had no doubts or questions about _should_ or _if_.

Coming to the end of the road, Dean found an odd peace settling over him. There was only Sam, who Dean could only hope was waiting for him somewhere - and Dean, who was going to do his damndest to come and find him there.

If he was lucky - luckier than he deserved, Dean thought - wherever _there_ was, they would at least be together. It was all Dean dared to ask for. It was all Dean had ever wanted.

With a last glance at his brother, Dean forced himself to remember the more distant, happier times. Five-year-old Sam, running up to him on his first day of school, with his hands held up and a smile on his face. Teenage Sam, happy just at the thought he might finally be bigger than his big brother. A beaten - but never broken - Sam's rolling laughter, having glued a beer bottle to Dean's hand.

Forgotten were the years apart, all that mattered was the lifetime spent together.

"Wait for me, Sammy," he whispered, finally tearing his eyes away. A single tear tracked into his hair and Dean closed his eyes, letting out a long breath.

And then he thought no more.

fin


End file.
